


Just give it time

by Gwendelan



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, First Kiss, First Time, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-16 15:52:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2275653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwendelan/pseuds/Gwendelan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trusting each other is a gradual process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there!!
> 
> This work was posted originally two years ago. Never got around to really editing or finishing it, so I decided to delete it and post it anew.
> 
> Still not a native speaker, so if you spot any mistakes, please let me know.
> 
> Hope you enjoy, tell me what you think!!

Derek should really start renting an apartment. Some place he could actually call his own, with clothes in the closet and canned goods in the pantry and books on the shelves, some place where he could let his guard down for a while.

But he knows he would never be able to call it _home_. His home burnt down along with most of his family seven years ago, along with his dreams and hopes and expectations, along with his ability to trust himself and others.

Peter is prowling around the entrance of the train station, once again. He can hear him coming closer, can smell him hesitating. He knows Peter needs a pack, needs his family back, probably even more than he lets on, but Derek's already fragile authority over his Betas wouldn't withstand the older man's constant challenge, and the Alpha expects complete submission before he even considers letting him back in. The elder's vast knowledge would be immensely valuable, but his greediness for power is a threat to be reckoned.

He can see Isaac watching him warily from the corner of his eye, can feel the twin stares of Erica and Boyd drilling holes into his nape. They just finished dinner, which consisted in snacks and cold pizza and sodas, bought at the 24-hour market around the corner of the street. The teens don't seem to care, but Derek does. They're his responsibility, now. He should be able to provide for them, to feed them proper food and check their homework, to play cardgames with them and give them love advice and see to their every need, to shield them against the harshness of life. Instead, the only thing he has to offer is an abandonned subway car and his own concerns about their survival.

"Peter's outside again." Erica breaks the silence.

"I know."

"Are you gonna let him in?" Isaac asks, somewhat anxious.

"Not until I can know for sure that he won't stab me in the back at the first opportunity." He answers, loud enough.

The teens all stay quiet for a while after that, and they listen to Peter's steps fading in the distance. Derek finally allows himself to relax back into the rickety old couch they snatched from a dumpster a few days ago. It still smells sour and moldy, but it's better than the makeshift bed he built with stuffing from the train seats. Isaac, on the more and more frequent occasions when he prefers the train station to his own empty house, sleeps on the only mattress they managed to find along the couch, sometimes sharing with Boyd and Erica if they stay the night. It's not ideal, but it works.

It's not that Derek doesn't have the money. He honestly doesn't know how much is on the various bank accounts he inherited, plus seven years of interest on both these and the life insurances. He could probably buy a nice place with actual functionning furniture and kitchen supplies and a television. He just doesn't want to. Too many memories he cannot build again.

Isaac kicks off his shoes and lies down, soon joined by Erica who snuggles into his side. Boyd tries to fit on what little is left of the mattress, muscular arm around their waists to keep from falling. Isaac protests that he's being crushed between them, Boyd tries to give him some more room, and helplessly rolls onto the cold ground with a defeated sigh. Erica laughs, splutters when everyone is shoved away as Boyd makes himself comfortable on the now vacated mattress.

Guilt and sadness and irritation are warring in Derek's head as he watches them, wolfed out and ready to fight over a bed. He clenches his teeth, growling low in his throat before springing up. He's had enough.

"Stop that." He snaps. They all jump to attention. "Isaac, come sleep on the couch. Boyd and Erica can share the mattress. I'm going out."

"What? You're leaving us here in the middle of the night? With Peter creeping around?"

"I'm the one he wants to see. He won't come when I'm not here. Now go to sleep, all of you, or I'll dose you with wolfsbane. Keep your phones on."

Erica starts making a noise of protest, but stops quickly at her Alpha's answering growl. Derek watches them settle into their designated spots, then climbs the stairs leading up to the street, and just breathes for a while.

******

Stiles is staying at Scott's tonight, with the intent of helping him catch up on his chemistry classes. It's probably a lost cause, but it means that his room's free for the time being. The Sheriff is once again working the night shift, and Derek spares a glance to check the cruiser isn't anywhere in sight before swiftly climbing the tree in front of Stiles's window and making his way inside silently.

He knows the place quite well, but still lets his eyes wander across the room. Typical teenager room, with dirty clothes all over the floor and a paper basket overflowing with used tissues, pizza boxes on a corner of the desk and bed unmade.

The latter immediately catches his attention. Derek knows, for having sat there on numerous occasions, that it's wonderfully soft and welcoming. It probably smells of Stiles and sweat and spunk, but Derek doesn't care – or if he does, just not in the right way, he's not going to analyze it. It's been too long since he slept in a real bed, and now that the idea wormed its way into his head, he can't shake it off. He initially merely intended to use the teen's computer, but the appeal of a full night's sleep is too great.

But first, he's going to enjoy a nice, long, _warm_ shower. Or maybe a bath. Benefits of invading a fully supplied house.

His night is definitely looking up.

******

He wakes to the sound of a car pulling over in the driveway, then a door slamming shut and footsteps walking up to the front door. Keys jiggling in the lock, the soft thump of boots being toed off, and Stiles's father making himself breakfast. Derek knows he should leave before he's found out, but he's pretty sure the Sheriff knows his son is at Scott's and won't come checking on him unexpectedly. So he takes his time waking up, stretching lazily until several of his joints pop, and he barely refrains from groaning in satisfaction. He's feeling languid, more relaxed than he's been in a very long time, and he curls on his side and rubs his face a little into Stiles's pillow, enjoying the soft caress of satin sheets against his stubbled cheek, reveling in the familiarity that is Stiles's scent all over the fabric. He's still not ready to analyze how it was even possible for him to fall asleep in stranger territory, but he will certainly make the most of the energy he can feel pulsing through him, the vivacity that comes with a good night's sleep.

He's definitely doing it again the next time the Stilinskis' house is empty. In the meantime, he has matters to attend.

Maybe a burnt-out house to fix. After all, he has both the money _and_ the manpower. Hell, if Peter agrees to help, Derek may consider it his attempt at redemption.

It's amazing what miracles sleep can work.

He rolls out of bed, stretches some more with a blissed smile, then promptly jumps out of the window.


	2. Chapter 2

He's on edge, has been for days. Erica and Boyd have gone missing, he's pretty sure the Alpha pack has them, Argent has been breathing down his neck even more than usual about his responsibility toward his pack but also toward this _town_ , and Derek can't do it on his own, can't protect the whole population with only two Betas, one of whom he doesn't trust, and a lone wolf who refuses to be part of his pack anymore and is now making his own stupid choices.

He's twenty-three, was never meant to be an Alpha, and the few people who could have taught him how to be a good leader have been long dead. He doesn't want to need Stiles's help, but he does, so he grabs the keys to his Camaro and drives to the Stilinskis' house, hoping against hope that the Sheriff is on duty, because the man isn't oblivious and there's only so many times he can climb through the window without getting caught.

He can smell the blood and distress all the way from the driveway, and his stomach knots with fear, his chest tightens in anticipation of what he could find. He's been very careful not to associate Stiles to pack business these last few days, wary of leading the werewolves invading his territory straight to him, but the boy never does as he's told, and he reeks of wolf. Anything could have happened. So he jumps out of the car, runs the few meters separating him from the door, and almost breaks the hinges in his haste to get inside.

"Stiles!" He calls, desperately sniffing the air, trying to locate the teen. "Stiles!"

The soft click of a safety being removed penetrates through the fog in his brain and he turns his head to see the Sheriff leveling a gun at his head, grip steady and brows furrowed.

"Hale." He says coldly. "What do you think you're doing here?"

His aim doesn't falter, his entire posture demanding explanations, and quick. Derek doesn't care, he has to get to Stiles before the teen bleeds out.

"Stiles." He gasps. "He's wounded. He's... There's blood. Too much blood." He knows he sounds frantic and probably a little insane, knows he's not making much sense, but he can't very well explain how he smelt the blood two hundred yards away from the house.

This time, the hand holding the gun wavers slightly.

"What are you talking about?"

"Where is he?" He's shouting now, half in hysterics, and distantly wonders if this is what a panic attack feels like. Like he could die of worry if he doesn't find Stiles.

"I'm not sure that's any of your business. Besides you don't get to barge into people's houses uninvited. Now, what the hell are you talking about? You better start speaking up or I will shoot you."

Derek is about to do something he would never forgive himself for, like maul the Sheriff, or confess everything, when thankfully Stiles appears in the stairway, bloody handkerchief held up to his nose and his face a perfect mask of bewilderment.

"Derek?"

"Stiles!"

He lunges for the kid, intent on checking up every inch of him for injuries, but is stopped by a solid punch to the face and an armlock. The Sheriff is shouting, he's screaming for Stiles, and then the teen grabs his dad around the waist and tries to bodily haul him away from the werewolf so obviously struggling with his control.

"Dad, stop it! Look at him!" Stiles snaps, gesturing to the anguish marring his traits. "He's terrified, he's not gonna hurt me!"

Whatever the Sheriff is seeing, it's making him let go and tuck his gun away, and then Stiles is kneeling before him and placing both hands on his shoulders, a drop of blood slowly meandering across his upper lip, and Derek's wolf wants to howl.

"Derek, what the hell?" He demands, forcing him to look him straight in the eyes, and he shakes his head, unable to form words, throat closed up and breath too short and holy hell, it's like back in that pool when Stiles let him go, it's like back in that cave while Kate was torturing him. He is going to die.

"Derek." Stiles calls, forcing him to focus back on him. "You're having a panic attack. You have to breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Try to expand your stomach and not just your chest, okay? Do it with me. Come on, in, and out. In, and out..."

He tries to listen to the kid, tries to do as he's told, and once the air rushes back deep into his lungs he finds he can focus more easily, everything shifting back into place. The viselike pain in his chest alleviates, the weight crushing his ribcage lightens. He calms down, an inordinate amount of time later, letting Stiles's voice guide him into a proper breathing rhythm, letting Stiles's touch be his anchor.

Gradually, he becomes aware of the Sheriff still standing next to them, surely at a loss about how to handle the unexpected situation. And then he realizes he just had a _panic attack_ like some kind of teenage girl, and in front of both Stilinskis, no less. The embarrassment increases tenfold when he notices he's shaking and his face is wet from tears, and he ducks his head, unable to meet Stiles's eyes anymore.

"Dad, can you get him a tissue and a glass of water, please?" The teen says in a low voice, and after only a brief moment of hesitation on the Sheriff's part, they're alone in the hallway.

"So, what was that all about?" Stiles asks gently, helping him up and steering him toward the couch.

"I... I could smell blood. From the road. And you were distressed. And with all the shit that's been piling up on us for days, I thought..."

"You thought I was hurt."

Derek nods, red-faced and angry at himself. Stiles shakes him slightly by the shoulders and wipes his cheeks with both thumbs like it's no big deal.

"It was just a nosebleed. Okay, it was like the bitch mother of all nosebleeds, because I soaked two packs of tissues and a handtowel before I could get it to stop, so I guess I was a little twitchy. Well, more than usual. But I'm fine, okay? I swear."

"Yeah." He grunts, still embarrassed to have jumped to all the wrong conclusions and made a fool of himself. "Sorry."

"Don't worry. I used to get panic attacks, back when my mom died. Sometimes, your body just takes over, no questions asked. Especially when you're under pressure. So I get it, okay? No need to blush. Although you really blush prettily."

Stiles has the nerve to smirk, and the werewolf hits him in the shoulder in retribution, though more gently than ever before. Then Stiles's father comes back and Derek mumbles his thanks when he is handed a glass of brandy rather than just water, and a whole pack of tissues. He blows his nose and sips from the glass, unnerved at the twin stares he can feel driving holes into him, and shakily settles the tumbler back on the coffee table before getting to his feet.

"I should go." He says as blankly as possible.

"Derek. Could we talk for a second?" The Sheriff interrupts. "Nothing to worry about." He quickly adds at the younger deer-in-headlights look.

"Um. Yeah. Sure."

"Stiles. Go back to your room, all right? I'm sure you still have homework that needs to be done. And clean your face, there's blood on your lips."

The teen looks like he wants to protest, but finally gives in without a word and trudges grudgingly back to his room, Derek and his dad staring at his retreating back. Then the Sheriff produces the brandy again, and pours himself a glass when Hale politely declines.

"So. I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable, or anything. But are you in any kind of trouble?" Stilinski senior asks, face devoid of any trace of judgement, and it's like being back in the interrogation room again.

"Not... Not really, sir." He knows he's not convincing in the least, but the Sheriff doesn't have any element against him, and even if Derek told him the truth, it's not like he would be able to help.

"All right. You don't have to tell me. But what I just witnessed... You're under a crazy amount of stress right now, I can tell. Whatever it is, if you ever need help, just ask, okay?"

"Okay. Thank you."

"It's my job. Now, I have to ask. How do you know Stiles?"

It's the one question Derek should have expected, and the one he hasn't prepared an answer for. He doesn't know what to say, doesn't know what lie could convince the Sheriff his son isn't in danger – especially after the show he just performed in their hallway –, that he isn't hanging out with the wrong people.

"I..."

Stilinski senior is watching him attentively, and he swallows compulsively, wishing for once in his life that he could run out at the mouth like Stiles does all the time, because even if he cannot lie for shit, he can at least confuse his opponent and manipulate him into forgetting his question.

But Derek isn't Stiles.

"He helps." He answers honestly. "I don't know that many people in town, and most still think I'm a murderer."

"Thanks to Stiles."

He shakes his head.

"He did accuse me of murder. Twice. But the rumor had already spread that I was back in town, right after the body was found. People would have thought it anyway. But Stiles apologized once he realized his mistake, and he's been helping me."

"With what?"

"With... adapting to this town without my family." Derek answers uncertainly. "With building my life back. Sometimes he's annoying as hell, but he's a good guy."

The Sheriff looks him straight in the eye, and then nods, approvingly.

"He is." He says proudly. "But he's still sixteen and in highschool. I don't know what your... relationship entails, but he's still easily manipulated and I refuse that he gets hurt because he doesn't know better."

Derek's eyes widen.

"We're not... We're not a couple. And I would never..." He stammers.

The older man raises a placating hand.

"I'm not saying you would. But if he ever gets hurt, I'm blaming it on you. I'll have this same talk with him, but his curfew is still at midnight, and he doesn't get to go out before his homework is finished. I wanna know where he's going, who he's going with, and you're responsible for him when he's with you. You can come here whenever you want, but if I ever, _ever_ , catch you climbing through his window, I'm shooting you in the ass. Use the front door."

The last part is said with such a meaningful look that Derek knows he was right fearing the Sheriff's observance.

"I will." He says determinedly. He might heal quickly, but taking a bullet always hurts, and he has no intention of getting on the Sheriff's bad side.

"Glad that's settled. Now, I assume you came here for a reason. You still want to talk to him? I'm pretty sure he eavesdropped on this entire conversation, so I'm guessing his homework hasn't progressed in the slightest, but you can probably go up there for a few minutes."

"Um. Yes, that would be great. Thank you."

"You're welcome. Now go, before I decide to kick you out of this house."

The Alpha doesn't think twice before obeying him.


	3. Chapter 3

Derek is exhausted.

He hasn't slept in over four days, hasn't eaten in maybe thirty hours, didn't even really take the time to empty his bladder except when it was absolutely necessary. He's been running around trying to protect his pack from the newest supernatural menace, failing spectacularly, and ending up roaming the whole town in search of Jackson, who had gone missing two days ago. Stiles is actually the one who found him, Scott in tow for back-up purposes only, and the teen is now being cared for by Lydia in what is considered to be their shared bedroom in the Hales' newly renovated mansion.

Derek only wants to shower and eat and _sleep_ until his limbs don't feel like they're made of lead, until the sandpaper feeling he experiences every time he blinks is gone.

But Stiles, as buoyant as ever, wants to celebrate.

"Come on, Sourwolf! It's post-near-death-experience-number-twenty-nine drinking time!"

He pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation, grits his teeth to force the fangs back.

"You're not allowed to drink alcohol, let alone _buy_ it. Hell, sometimes I feel like you shouldn't even be allowed to drive. You should all go home." He snarls, patience wearing thinner by the second.

"Oh, don't be a party pooper. I'll even get your favorite drink. What's your favorite drink?"

He slams into the memories like into a brick wall, painful and dizzying and breath-taking. He can recall being fourteen and allowed a small sip of Chartreuse out of his father's glass, a thick, bright green liquor brought back by his uncle after visiting some distant relatives in the French Alps, whose smell had wafted heavily into the room the moment the bottle had screwed open, whose taste had seemed overwhelming in a way nothing else had ever been. He had choked on it, alcohol burning down his throat, but for a second, every other sensation had been drowned out, like the liquor had held the power to erase the rest of the world even for just a moment.

Oh, how he had longed for the same sensation after his entire life had been wiped out by fire, had longed for that same blessed oblivion. But no other beverage had ever held that unique power over him, and now it terrifies him, that he longed so much for something that could make him lose control, turn him into a vile, violent beast.

It is one of his most despised weaknesses, and nobody could ever know.

He mumbles the first drink that comes to mind.

"Beer."

Stiles stares. Has probably been staring for a while, because a whole minute has passed since the question was asked, and Derek doesn't want to know what the hyperactive and sometimes too-smart kid has been able to read on his face while he was caught up in painful memories.

"Boring." Stiles finally says, wisely choosing to ignore the matter. "How can _beer_ be anyone's favorite? I mean, it's bitter and foamy and too low in alcohol to even get properly drunk. And it's diuretic. But whatever. What brand?"

******

Half an hour later, the whole pack – minus Jackson and Lydia – is curled up in various positions on the couch and floor, staring at the brand new flat screen that Erica had insisted upon, watching some kind of horror movie and guzzling Thai take-out straight out of the cartons, sharing drinks and comments aud laughter, slowly winding down from the stressful days.

Derek is struggling to keep his eyes open, and failing miserably. His own drink lays empty between his feet upon the coffee table, his food wolfed down – _ha ha_ – a long time ago, and the few glimpses of the movie he actually manages to catch are too far-between to make any sense. After a while, he simply stops trying, letting his eyelids fall heavily shut and sinking further into the comfortable back cushion of the couch.

He wakes up to the unsettling feeling of his pillow moving under his cheek, and realizes after a few heartbeats that he somehow ended up resting his head in someone's lap. The movie is obviously over and everyone is packing up the cushions and quilts and discarding the garbage, and there is a hand on his shoulder, rubbing slowly back and forth in an attempt to rouse him. It feels nice.

"Hey." Stiles greets him with an uneasy smile when Derek turns his head to look at him. "You kinda slept through the whole film, dude. Slumped sideways at some point and I didn't want to wake you. You should go up to your room, we'll finish sorting things in here, don't worry."

And really, he should be freaking out and jumping up and out of reach, because there has been contact, _unplanned and prolonged_ contact, with someone whom he's not even sure he trusts, and it usually only happens in dire situations like being held afloat in eight feet of water for two hours after being paralyzed by some unknown creature.

Okay, there goes the trust issue.

But Stiles feels familiar, smells good to his wolf, and he's still bone-weary and heavy-limbed, and so he doesn't move for a while, completely ignoring the looks he knows he must be receiving from the rest of the pack. He rubs his cheek a little against the cloth of the teen's jeans, enjoys the surprised chuckle and the affectionnate dog joke it gets out of Stiles – _Dude, seriously, you look like a puppy right now. An angry overgrown puppy_ – and lets out a sleepy sigh before finally sitting up, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes in a desperate attempt to ward off the low-grade headache throbbing at the back of his skull. Stiles is watching him curiously, like he's trying to work out why Derek is not snapping at him for touching him or calling him dude or even letting him sleep in the first place, and he feels the need to cut the investigative gaze short.

"Thanks for letting me sleep." He mumbles. "I'll trust you can tidy the place up without actually breaking anything. And then you can drive yourself home. You can drive _all of them_ home. If I don't see any of you for the next few days, I'll be tremendously happy."

His attempt at sarcasm earns him a raised eyebrow but no real answer and he pushes himself to his feet, not even bothering to bid anyone goodnight because he deems it's their fault he's that tired, having to save their stupid asses again. He climbs the stairs slower than usual and all but collapses into his bed, heavy boots streaking dried mud all over the sheets, and doesn't care. He can hear his pack shuffling and chatting lowly downstairs, then car doors opening and slamming shut, and the deep rumble of Stiles's jeep before silence falls down heavily over the house and he sighs in relief.

He falls asleep again, but his night is restless.


	4. Chapter 4

Stiles is starting to notice the change in Derek's behavior. Nothing big, nothing so unusual that it would worry him and make him wonder about the Alpha's sanity. Simple things, details really, stretching over days and months, that only start to make sense after a while, when he finally takes the time to connect the dots and catches a glimpse of what lies underneath.

It starts with a complete and utter lack of death threats. Derek still slams him into walls, snarls, growls, sometimes shows a hint of fangs, but words like "rip your throat out with my teeth" or "run you through with my bare claws" haven't been heard in quite a while now. Stiles doesn't think anything of it, writes it up as Derek relying purely on non-verbal communication to make his anger known. Him being a man of few words is familiar territory.

Derek's manhandling doesn't recede, but evolves into something a little more complex. After a hunt gone bad, or when Stiles is being his usual clumsy self, the werewolf will pull him off the ground or out of harm's way, check him over with rough hands and rougher moves, rest a warm palm between his shoulder blades to push him toward his Jeep – or keep him steady on his feet.

The stalking doesn't stop either. Stiles will often come home after Lacrosse practice or another detention to find Derek seated at his desk or sprawled across his bed, surfing the internet or reading a book or, on one notable occasion, ruffling through the teen's belongings in search of his own – clean, thanks to Stiles – clothes, which have somehow taken permanent residence inside his drawers.

One day, he shoulders his bedroom door open only to startle at the sight of the Alpha sound asleep on the floor between his bed and the wall, flat on his belly with his face smothered in one of Stiles's pillows and an old comic book held loosely in his right hand. It takes Stiles a few seconds to shake the confusion away and realize that the werewolf is snoring softly, meaning that Stiles's arrival didn't even manage to stirr him awake, and he collapses into his desk chair at the numerous implications rushing through his head.

After contemplating the slumbering werewolf on his floor for a whole five minutes, mind completely blank with how much his thoughts are swirling around the idea that Derek might find this very room _safe_ , he resolves to think about it later and act like a proper house guest. The floor is certainly no place to sleep, and if Derek is exhausted enough to doze in foreign land and not wake when someone else enters the room, he probably needs more than a brief nap on the cold, hard floorboards.

"Derek. Hey, Derek, wake up. Come on, you mangy sourwolf, waky, waky!"

The Alpha grunts and growls but finally lifts his head away from the pillow, and for a second there is a thin string of drool connecting his mouth to the fabric, before the man licks his lips and it snaps. Stiles is stunned speechless for a moment at this proof of Derek's appartenance to mankind, before he has to muffle his laughter at the disorientated glare the Alpha turns to him.

"Hey, Sourwolf. Just thought you'd be more comfortable on a bed, you know? How long have you been there, anyway?"

Derek rolls onto his back and wipes a hand down his face, obviously still half-asleep and unhurried to remedy to it.

"Dunno." He mumbles, then yawns widely. "What time's it?"

"Uh, half past six. More or less. Was there something you wanted?"

The werewolf frowns thoughtfully, runs fingers through his tousled hair.

"Probably." He answers, sounding young and confused. "Can't really remember. Thought you'd come home sooner than that, picked a comic to pass the time."

"And apparently ended up passing out on my floor. How long's it been since you last slept through the night, seriously?"

Derek's scowl is enough of an answer, and Stiles finds himself tugging the man upright and pushing him toward his bed. The werewolf goes readily, suddenly remembering how good it felt to sink into the mattress the last time he was there alone, and slumps down atop the covers, startling when he feels the teen tugging at the laces on his boots and wrenching the heavy shoes away from his feet.

"You're not rubbing mud and whatever else all over my clean sheets." Stiles says preemptively. "Okay, maybe not so clean, but I really don't intend to do laundry for another fortnight, so you'll just have to deal."

Derek doesn't care to protest. Actually, he's quite fine with being barefoot. Especially if it means he gets to bury himself in Stiles's fluffy and welcoming quilt. Which he does promptly, as soon as Stiles gives him the go ahead.

He can feel the kid's flummoxed stare following his every move, can't bring himself to mind.

"I, uh. I'm gonna go downstairs and make something to eat. My dad left for the night shift about an hour ago, which means that you can stay here for dinner. You, uh, you okay with lasagna?"

"Awesome. Now go away. Or don't, just let me sleep." Derek grumbles, secretly grateful. He knows his attitude is confusing the teen, probably worrying him as well, but he feels so much better just from Stiles's overwhelming presence that he doesn't want to ruin it by wondering what the hell it means.

"You okay, man?" Stiles cannot help but ask, because seriously, where before was just testing the limits of his comfort zone, this is steering into completely alien territory.

"Stiles." Derek growls, opening his eyes to show glowing red irises, and okay, this is about as familiar as it gets.

"Okay, okay. Sourwolf. Sleep well. I'll yell when dinner's ready." The kid raises a placating hand and backs off out of the room, and Derek allows himself a small smile, knowing nobody's there to see it.

Then he promptly falls back asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

Autumn this year is colorful and sunny, the sunrays filtering through reddening leaves and bathing the ground in a warm light. Derek is lying flat on his belly, just below the first sparse trees surounding his house, head cushionned on his crossed arms, basking in the soft caress of sun on his mostly naked skin. There hasn't been any kind of supernatural threat for the last few weeks and he feels like he can finally relax, like he can enjoy life at long last.

He can hear Stiles's jeep getting closer long before the vehicle actually enters his property. He chooses not to move, to let the teen come to him. After all, the Sheriff's kid has been over often enough not to need a ceremonial welcome.

The car door closes firmly, and then Stiles walks up to the house, only to stop halfway there. His steps freeze for a handful of seconds before he's suddenly running toward him at full speed, and the wind carries a whiff of adrenalin and sweat.

"Fuck, fuck, Derek, you okay?"

Stiles skids to a stop mere inches away from him and then promptly drops to his knees, one of his hands resting high on his back, the other curling around his neck to check his pulse.

Derek chuckles into his forearms, turns his head to the side so he can catch Stiles's wide and panicked eyes.

"I'm fine. Just lazing in the sun." He answers with a mirthful grin.

The teen looks apoplectic for a second. Then he hits him on the back of the head with an open palm, cursing under his breath, and drops his face into Derek's shoulderblade in relief.

"Shit. Don't do that, man. Fragile human being, remember? One day you'll manage to give me a heart attack, and then who will be there to look after your sorry ass?"

The Alpha laughs a little, secretly pleased with that information. Stiles raises his head to huff and mumble some more expletives, but he doesn't draw his hands away.

It feels nice, this contact, the warmth seeping into his muscles. It's been a long time since he let anyone touch him with anything akin to tenderness or comfort, and he finds himself missing it, missing the way his family used to touch all the time, a hand on his arm to get his attention, an arm around his shoulders to congratulate or soothe. Derek touches his pack members in the same way, but he realizes they never return the gesture.

Except Stiles.

Stiles touches him all the time. Whether unconsciously or purposefully, Derek doesn't know, has never wondered before, but the teen often lays his hands on a shoulder or an arm, prods his healing wounds, pokes his sides to get a rise out of him.

And apparently, he is also very comfortable with rubbing circles into Derek's back, hunting knots with his fingers, kneading the flesh until it's yielding to his touch.

"Jesus. You're so tense. Do you ever relax at all? You're napping in the sun and you still feel like a fucking stone block."

Derek shrugs with the one shoulder that's not being worked on.

"I feel relaxed enough – _ouch_."

"Riiiight." Stiles quips, incredulous, while two of his fingers press into a solid knot at the base of his neck.

Then he's straddling him and putting all his weight into the massage, and...

Okay, Derek can admit it, his back fucking _hurts_. But under Stiles's deft fingers, it feels like it hurts in a _good_ way, like the promise of something much better when the pain is over. So he keeps himself still and lets the teen work the kinks out of his back, trying to muffle the sounds threatening to spill from his lips each and every time a knot is loosened.

Then Stiles digs one of his thumbs between his ribs and the edge of his left shoulderblade, and Derek realizes with a hint of shame that the loud moan he's hearing came from his own mouth.

"You okay down there?" Stiles asks, stilling.

"Yeah... Yeah." He answers, choked.

"Um. Okay, then. Should I keep going?"

"Yes! Please."

The thumb digs into his flesh once again, returning with a vengeance, and Derek gives up trying to bite back his whimpers and sighs, because it feels good, so good, and he hadn't realized he needed it until Stiles offered it so freely, but he will definitely enjoy it while it lasts.

Time after that is only a vague notion, lost as he is in a haze of pleasure and contentment. It ebbs and flows to the rhythm of Stiles's moves, punctuated only by the steady, synchronized beats of their hearts, and their slow intakes and releases of breath. He can feel his entire body melting into the ground. Somewhere along the line, he must have fallen asleep, because when he wakes it's almost night, the last colors of sunset dancing high in the sky, and there's a blanket covering his body, smelling of Stiles and engine oil. The teen is sitting just a few feet away, face turned away from him and to the moutain, where the first banks of snow are glowing with a pink hue in the fading daylight.

He's feeling languorous and lethargic, like someone dosed him with a mild sedative. His muscles are loose and pliant and take a few seconds to respond, but he finally manages to turn over and sit up, the rustling of the blanket visibly alerting Stiles of his awakening.

"Hey. How are you feeling?" He asks softly, his smile gentle and genuine.

"Good. Really, really good." He answers honestly, because he owes him that much. "Thanks."

"Anytime. You seriously don't know how to relax, dude. It's gotta be bad for your health."

Derek shrugs, then gives a resigned smile, because he accepted long ago that being an Alpha, responsible for his pack and of his territory, came with the price of losing a lot of sleep and probably his sanity. He doesn't know how his mother did it, with so many people to look after, but she managed just fine. Maybe one day he'll understand how it can be so easy. But for now...

"Someone has to keep watch."

"Yeah, I know. That's why I stayed when I noticed you were out." Stiles shrugs. "Doesn't always have to be you, you know."

Derek stares at him for a long time, once again thinking about how stupid people are to underestimate Stiles. The kid has good instincts, if only he'd allow himself to follow them more often.

And maybe Derek could follow them, too. Follow in his mother's steps, and give away a little of the responsibility, share the burden with someone else.

"Yeah. Maybe you're right."


	6. Chapter 6

Things are better these days. The pack is back together, Erica and Boyd and even Scott following his lead once more, and even if he's still completely at a loss as to how to be a good Alpha, he doesn't feel like a failure as often.

But today...

Today, he doesn't want to go downstairs and find his living room invaded with overexcited pups screaming and roughhousing and making a mess of snacks and spilt drinks. Doesn't want to fake a smile and pretend he enjoys playing the wii or watching romantic comedies. Definitely doesn't want to answer any of their questionning stares when he inevitably chews on one of them for almost no reason at all.

He doesn't want to be in this house.

So he shrugs on a pair of jeans and a faded T-shirt, carelessly wraps his worn leather jacket around his shoulders and makes an escape through his window to run around in the woods a little.

After a while, though, he realizes this isn't going to make him feel better. Listening to the wind whistling in the trees and the birds chirping reminds him too much of his mother trying to teach him to separate the noises and recognize the songs, the sight of the almost-frozen over lake invokes memories of Laura and their younger brother racing to the other shore on ice-skates. His eyes feel wet and he tells himself it's because of the wind, knows it's not.

He doesn't want to be alone anymore.

So he walks to the Stilinskis' home, noticing that his aimless wandering took him quite close already but not really giving it any more thought.

It's Stiles's father who answers the door when he knocks, and for a moment he doesn't know what to do. It's happened a few times since the man gave him an open invitation to come over when he felt like it, but somehow he always found something to say. Right now, though, he cannot think of anything, because the truth is just too much and he will not break down a second time in front of the Sheriff.

"Derek? What's wrong?"

Damn the man for his observation skills.

"I'm fine." He answers, voice a little too rough and not nearly confident enough, and Stiles's father eyes him critically for a moment before reaching a hand out and pulling him in by the shoulder.

"Stiles is at Scott's, but I can give him a call, tell him to come back. It's not like they don't see each other enough already."

He leads him to the kitchen, sits him down on a chair and fumbles with the cupboards for a few minutes, before pushing a steaming mug of honeyed tea in front of him. It's certainly not what Derek was expecting but the way the Sheriff is fussing over him is strangely familiar, and his heartbeat picks up a little.

"Careful, it's hot. Now, what's going on? You look like someone kil... Oh."

His eyes light up in understanding, darting quickly to the calendar that's pinned to the fridge door to confirm his suspicions, and Derek wonders how Stiles was ever able to lie to him, if it's even possible that the man still ignores what's going on in his town. He may still be unaware of some of the specifics, but he isn't clueless by any stretch of imagination, which means he probably caught on the supernatural part a while ago.

But the Sheriff never breathed a word of his suspicions, never tried to weasel the truth out of Derek, or even his own son. He let them be, keeping a close eye on their whereabouts, enquiring about their safety, but never intervened, most likely realizing that it wasn't his part to play, keeping his role as a caring father and a dedicated law enforcement officer.

And right now, Derek would bet the Sheriff has reverted to caring father mode. He keeps his gaze steadily on his tea, doesn't want to know what kind of pitying face the man is making.

"I'm sorry, Derek. Do you want to talk about it?" He asks gently.

The werewolf merely shakes his head. His throat feels too constricted for words.

"I'll give Stiles a call, then. He's very good at babbling and making people forget whatever's weighing down on their minds, even for a moment."

He gives Derek a tentative smile and reaches for the phone, hits speed-dial #2 and waits for his son to pick up.

"Son, it's me. Could you come back sooner, maybe? Derek's here. I'm pretty sure he needs you there. Yeah, all right, see you soon."

He hangs up, slips the phone into its base.

"He will be there in about twenty minutes. Should I leave you alone?"

And this, this is what makes his walls crumble down into ash. He shakes his head frantically and raises both hands to hide his face, unwilling to let the Sheriff see his features scrunched up in grief and pain and _loneliness_ , the tears leaking from below his eyelashes to wet his cheeks. But he can't control it, can't control the way his body curls over itself, instinctively trying to shield from his enemy in his vulnerable state, and he grits his teeth desperately to keep in the whimpers and sobs trying to escape his lips.

Stiles's father doesn't react immediately, torn between the necessary boundaries he has to respect with a former suspect, and the fact that this is one of Stiles's friends, only a few years older despite his gruff appearance and the constant worries etching lines on his face, someone who has lost everything. He remembers his own grief, how some nights it was all he could do not to barge into his son's room and hug him within an inch of his life, and really, the man could probably use all the hugs he can get. So he crosses the room in quick strides and hauls Derek to his feet, instantly wrapping him in a strong embrace, tucking the young man's face into his shoulder and stroking up and down his back in what he hopes is a comforting gesture.

Derek remains tense within the Sheriff's hold, shaking with the effort it takes to rein his emotions in, but he hasn't been hugged in far too long, and the man's scent is familiar. He doesn't know if it's because the Stilinskis touch so frequently that Stiles and his father smell so much alike, if it's because they use the same hygiene products and eat the same meals, or if it's just a genetic trait, but it's comforting all the same, and after a long moment, he sinks into the feeling, melting into the embrace and fisting his hands into the Sheriff's shirt like he's the only thing holding him upright.

"You're going to be okay, Derek." The man whispers in his ear, squeezing him even tighter. "I know life hasn't been easy for you, but you can count on us being there, okay? Whatever you need, seriously. It's going to be all right."

He doesn't cry. Not because he doesn't need to, but because it's much better enjoying this illusion of a paternal figure while he can, even if it's a lie, a substitute. He is pretty sure the man would hug him any time he really needs it, but he doesn't want to appear weak either, and this is probably the one and only day he is entitled to be. So he sags into the man's chest, letting himself be held up and comforted, letting himself breathe and remember.

******

Stiles walks in five minutes later, perplexed and a little worried, finds them sipping tea quietly in the kitchen, sitting across from each other, and raises a questionning eyebrow.

"Dad? Derek? What's going on?"

His father straightens up, carefully deposits his half-full mug on the counter, and shoos them both out of the room.

"Why don't you boys get upstairs and have a talk? I'll be making lunch, I'll call you down when it's ready."

It's obvious Stiles still doesn't know what to expect, but he follows Derek up the stairs obediently and closes the door to his room behind them.

"So, what's up?"

The werewolf sits down on the edge of the bed, resting his elbows on his knees. It's a while before he says anything, but Stiles, for once, seems to know better than press for an answer, watching him carefully like he expects him to snap or disappear any moment. So he shifts his gaze to the ground, distractedly eyeing the cluster haphazardly strewn across the whole room, makes a vague hand gesture before letting his arm drop helplessly.

"Today's the twenty-fifth of November." He answers, because saying out loud that it's the anniversary of the fire is still liable to bring him to tears.

"So?" Stiles says, confused.

Derek remains silent, and can see the exact moment comprehension dawns on the teen, can hear the way his heart skips a beat at the realization. Stiles plops down next to him and fidgets nervously for a while, before tentatively resting a hand on his shoulder.

"How are you holding up?" He asks, gentle and shy like he's not sure he should ask.

Derek simply shrugs. What can he say, really? That he's feeling like something inside him has been torn apart? That he never really got around to mourn them all, especially his sister? That he misses them so bad sometimes he thinks he'll never grow out of feeling alone?

"Okay. Stupid question, I guess. What do you wanna do? We can watch a movie, your pick. We can... research stupid things on the internet. Play a game. We can even sleep, if you want. I'm so far behind in my sleep schedule that I could probably pass out for days. Or we can talk. Just... tell me what I can do, okay?"

He shrugs again.

"Whatever." He answers quietly, voice thick with the sobs he held back earlier. "Just... Take my mind off it?"

Stiles gives him a warm smile.

"Sure. Come on, take off you jacket and shoes. We're gonna watch a movie and cuddle on the bed a little. Um. I mean. If cuddling is all right with you. It's what I'd want if it was me, and it's what I do with Scott when he's feeling down, but you're not Scott, so maybe... But then, I figure you fell asleep on me the other day, and let me give you a massage, so you're apparently not averse to this kind of thing. Okay, you didn't fall asleep on me as much as just... fell on me. While you were asleep. But... Well. Is it okay?"

And Derek feels better already, because Stiles's awkwardness and incessant babble is so familiar that he can't help the small smile curling the corners of his lips, loving the hopeful grin he gets in response.

"Yeah. Yeah, it's okay."

He doesn't say that he actually craves it. He toes off his boots, shrugs off his coat and unbuckles his belt before joining Stiles on the bed, who has already powered up his laptop and is scrolling down the files of the many downloaded movies he owns.

"I should have known you'd be a shameless pirate." He smirks.

"Don't. My father is the Sheriff and he watches them with me, so it's like having a special derogation from the law. Now, pick one, will you?"

******

Two hours later, he is startled awake by someone quietly knocking on the door and Stiles's answering rumble right under his ear. He realizes that he once again fell asleep curled around the teen, and is about to scramble away when the kid wraps a reassuring arm around his shoulders, even as his father comes in.

"Boys, lunch is ready. Come down when you're done with whatever you're doing, okay?"

There isn't much doubt possible about what they were doing, since they're both still fully clothed with the laptop open across their legs and Derek was drooling on Stiles's T-shirt just a moment ago, but he can feel Stiles blushing heavily and cannot help his own heartbeat quickening at the allusion.

"We're just watching a movie! Well, I am. Derek slept through it, I think."

The Sheriff stares at them for a second with a crooked smile, as though he understands something they don't. His gaze lingers for a while on Derek's sleep-mussed hair and swollen eyes, but Derek doesn't try to escape. After all, the man has seen him have a panic attack and cry, has even hugged him, so he's pretty sure seeing him sleepily cuddling with his son isn't going to spook him.

Stilinski senior eyes them critically a little longer, then shrugs and sighs helplessly, making his way back out of the room.

"Just come down when you're ready." He says gently before closing the door.

Stiles doesn't move immediately, so Derek doesn't, either. He lets himself enjoy the warmth of the teen's chest against his cheek, the dull nails scratching lightly at his scalp. It's been too long since he let someone else take care of him, allowed himself to need someone's attention. Stiles is so open with his affection, so easy to talk to. And even if Derek has been considering him as part of the pack for a while now, he's not a wolf, which means he doesn't feel the pull to obey his Alpha's every order, like the others do. What he gives, he gives freely, because he wants to, not because he feels in any way compelled to. Seeing Derek at his weakest is never going to instillate any hint of rebellion, any idea of mutiny against the established hierarchy. Derek has never been the kind to wear his emotions on his sleeve, not even when he was still a Beta in a pack of two and his Alpha was his big sister. They shared the grief of losing their entire family, but Laura also had to shoulder the responsibility of being an Alpha and caring for a younger brother, and Derek didn't want to add to her burden. Besides, his own guilt prevented him from confiding in her. With Stiles, he can finally open up, just a little, just enough to get rid of the overflow, not enough to truly make himself vulnerable.

"You okay?" Stiles asks softly.

"Yeah." He sounds like he's been crying for hours. He's pretty sure he hasn't, but if he has, he wasn't awake for it, and Stiles doesn't mention it.

"We'll have to get up soon, dad doesn't like it when food gets cold. But if you need some more time, it's okay, I'm pretty sure he'll understand."

"No, it's fine. You're hungry, I can tell."

Stiles blushes slightly and he smirks, lets it turn to a softer smile when the teen turns around to shut down his laptop. They both climb to their feet and straighten their clothes before heading downstairs. The smell wafting from the kitchen is heavenly, and Derek realizes he hasn't eaten in almost twenty-four hours, but now his appetite is back with a vengeance.

He forgets his manners after the first few mouthfuls and inhales most of his food, helping himself to a second and then a third serving, under Stiles's amused stare and his father's watchful one. He's not even ashamed. It's that good.

He tells them so, and sees them smile at him like they were actually waiting for his approval, waiting for him to acknowledge just how much he feels at home here.

When he smiles back, there are tears in his eyes.

He doesn't care.


	7. Chapter 7

Stiles is halfway through an history essay that is due in two weeks (history may or may not be his favorite subject, or he may or may not need to occupy his mind and not think of what tomorrow is) when his cellphone goes off. He reaches for it blindly and answers without a single glance to the caller's ID. At this time of night, he expects Scott, or Derek, or maybe his dad.

He's not prepared for Isaac's frantic voice.

"Stiles! God, you gotta come over here, quick, because something's wrong with Derek and not even Deaton's managing to calm him down and he's calling for you, man, you gotta come."

Stiles is out of his chair and jumping into a pair of heavy hiking boots before he even registers moving.

"Isaac, calm down! Calm down right this moment and tell me what happened. Slowly."

"Derek's been poisonned." The teen is obviously making an effort to control his speech, but his desperation is clearly audible. "We don't know with what, but we were having a stroll through the woods and suddenly he was writhing on the floor and screaming. We couldn't find any entry wound, nothing. We all ate the same thing, and none of us are sick. Now he's hallucinating and Peter and Boyd are barely able to restrain him. He's not making much sense, but he's calling your name."

Stiles stumbles down the stairs dangerously fast and slams the front door shut behind himself, barely taking the time to actually lock it before he's wrenching the driver's door open and climbing in his trusted Jeep. He's still processing information, can hear grunts and growls in the background as Isaac keeps talking.

"We called Deaton, but he already gave him four types of antidote and he says it's no use giving him anymore if we don't know what it was and his fever isn't coming down. He looks bad, Stiles, he looks like he's dying."

Isaac starts whining pitifully like he's seconds away from sobbing, and Stiles has to admit he's howling in fear inside his own head, but they have to stay calm, if they want to be of any use.

"Hey! Stop that right now." He chastises, with the best imitation of an authoritative voice he can manage. "He's going to be fine. Deaton knows what he's doing, Derek's obviously still fighting whatever it is, he's tough, when have you ever seen him go down without a struggle? And... and I'm on my way, all right? I have to hang up so I can drive even faster, hopefully without getting arrested, but keep me updated if anything comes up, okay?"

"Yeah, 'kay. Hurry up."

"Will do."

He tosses the phone in the passenger seat and floors the gas pedal, heart drumming against his ribs like it's trying to break out. He's sweating, his hands are clammy, and his breath is shot to hell. He knows he's on the brink of a panic attack, but refuses to give in to it. His thoughts are whirling a mile a minute, crazy scenarios popping at random and making it hard to act rationally, but he remains focused on getting to the Hale's property as soon as possible.

Minutes later, he's bursting through the front door and jumping up the stairs to where he guesses Derek's room is. He doesn't have to look far – the ruckus they make is widely enough for his very human ears to get a direction.

The sight that welcomes him when he turns the final corner is pretty much apocalyptic. Almost all the furniture in the room lays shattered to smithereens, there's blood on the floorboards and gore on the walls and broken glass almost everywhere. Peter, Boyd and Derek are tangled in a messy heep of limbs on the torn mattress, growling and snarling and spilling blood every now and then, and Deaton's hovering over them all, trying to get to Derek with some kind of giant syringe that seriously scares Stiles more than everything else he's witnessing. Isaac, Erica and even Jackson are standing at the foot of the bed, watching in anguish as their half-shifted, completely-feral Alpha bites off another chunk of flesh out of his uncle's arm.

"Oh my god. OH MY GOD. What the hell am I doing here?!" Stiles cries, terrified beyond reason.

Everyone, including Derek, freezes at Stiles's exclamation. And then Peter is flying across the room and Boyd finds himself unable to prevent his Alpha from leaping toward the teen. When the other three Betas try to jump into action, they're mowed over by Boyd's unconscious form as Derek unceremoniously throws him away. Stiles barely registers that he should probably pass out from fear when suddenly he is tackled and thrown to the ground, grunting when two hundred pounds of feral werewolf crush down on him.

He squeezes his eyes shut, expecting to die an atrocious death, any second now.

Nothing happens.

Derek simply lies there, hugging him within an inch of his life, bloody and almost litterally boiling with fever, but he's not trying to attack anymore. He stays wrapped around Stiles like a shock blanket, burying his head in his neck and breathing too fast and far too shallowly into his skin, shaking and moaning and clutching at the teen like he's afraid he'll drown if he lets go.

Which, hey, seems like a plausible scenario. Derek has been hallucinating for a while now, is probably lost in a whirlwind of sounds and sensations. Maybe the memory of Stiles holding him up in the pool for hours is helping anchoring him to reality.

The rest of the pack is gathered around them, watching in cautious silence as Derek slowly quietens. Noone dares disturb whatever the hell is happening by unwanted noises or touches, so they stay back, relief gradually bleeding onto their faces when Derek doesn't move again. Even Deaton is remaining still, subdued, syringe nowhere in sight.

After a while, Stiles manages to wriggle an arm out of under himself and wraps it gently around the Alpha's shoulders, ready to withdraw at the slightest sign of protest, but the werewolf snuggles even closer and his distressed whines slowly recede.

"Derek? Can you hear me?" Stiles asks, voice a low murmur so as not to startle him.

The man makes a noise that could either be assent or mean nothing at all, and Stiles starts petting his hair in a reassuring caress.

"You're safe, everyone is safe, everything's okay. We're at your house. Whatever it is you're seeing, you're hallucinating, it's not real. Deaton is here too, we're gonna have you back on your feet in no time. You hear me? It's gonna be okay."

After a few minutes of mindless chatter and slow petting, Derek's heartbeat is back to a more reasonable rate, his breathing has settled. He's still burning up and shaking and occasionnally moaning in what sounds like pain, but at least he's not whimpering in terror anymore.

"We have to get his fever down." Deaton reminds them, not getting any closer, speaking softly. "He may have calmed down but he's in no way out of trouble yet."

"Yeah. Plus he's getting kind of heavy. Can we maybe move him to the bed?"

Everyone seems reluctant to approach, but it seems that Stiles's presence has truly operated miracles, because when Peter heaves his nephew's body into his arms, grunting under the strain but emitting no further protest, Derek doesn't even stirr. Stiles quickly jumps to his feet and grabs the werewolf's hand, hoping to prevent any sort of brutal awakening. He's happy to be wearing boots and not his ratty sneakers because there's glass scrunching under his feet with each step he takes and he makes a thorough check of the mattress before he allows Peter to lie the Alpha down on it.

"I'm gonna need a bucket with cold water and several washclothes. And if someone could sweep the floor, I'd be immensely grateful."

The wolves all grimace like they're contemplating protesting his order, but they obviously agree that Stiles should stay close to Derek, so they set to the task without too much protest. Ten minutes later the room is relatively safer and mostly debris-free, and Stiles is wiping Derek's upper body down with cold water, cleaning sweat and dirt and blood and trying to bring his temperature down to more reasonable levels.

"I have to go." Deaton informs, watching Stiles operate, and the teen realizes just now how the vet is craddling his left wrist, which is bruised and distorted and, yeah, probably needs some medical attention. "I left the last dose of antidote in the bathroom, in case you need it. But he looks like he's going to be fine. Your presence definitely helps, Stiles, so I suggest you stay here for the time being."

"Right. Um. What am I supposed to do if he gets truly feral again?"

"He won't." Deaton assures him. "His body is fighting the poison. The antidote was just the slight push he needed to do the work on his own."

"Like when Derek broke Erica's arm to force her to get rid of the kanima's venom."

"Exactly. The only thing worrying me is the fever. If you can't get it down within a few hours, give me a call and I'll come by before opening the clinic tomorrow morning."

"Got it."

"Good night, Stiles."

"Yeah, you too. Go get that arm taken care of."

Deaton smiles at him, and then he's gone. Stiles resumes bathing Derek's skin, catches himself staring at his face, his usual worry lines replaced by crimson circles under his eyes, brow sometimes furrowing in pain or rememberance, and he experiences an overwhelming urge to kiss his forehead, kiss it all better, like a mother would do. It's so out of left field that he stills for a moment, gripping the washcloth tight to keep himself from palming the werewolf's cheeks. Peter appears in the doorway mere seconds later, cleaned-up and left arm bandaged, his handsome face contorted in what is probably supposed to pass off as irritation but is more likely disguised concern.

"How is he?"

Stiles still doesn't trust the man, but he's willing to believe that his worry is genuine. Derek is his nephew, the only family he has left, and even a formerly dead psychotic Alpha-turned-Beta werewolf has to care, even a little.

"Calmer, at least. He hasn't made any sound in a while, so I'm guessing he's not in as much pain as before. Still unconscious, though."

The older man nods thoughtfully, makes a hesitant step inside, then backs away.

"I... Call me if anything happens?"

"Sure."

Time blurrs a little after that. He's not sure how long he kneels next to the Alpha, wiping his sweaty brow, refreshing the washcloth whenever it gets too warm, but it's early morning when Derek finally stirrs, emitting a breathy moan before tensing and slitting his eyes open, and Stiles is instantly there, one hand on his shoulder and the other grabbing his hand.

"Derek? Can you hear me?"

"Stiles?" The werewolf chokes out, obviously disorientated.

"Yeah, it's me. We're at your house. Welcome back among the living, man."

The werewolf instantly relaxes and lets his eyes fall shut once more, takes a few measured breaths.

"What happened?" He forces out after a while, hoarse.

"Apparently, you and Isaac were gallivanting around the woods when you collapsed and started screaming. Deaton says you've been poisonned with something, probably wolfsbane, but we're not sure what kind. How are you feeling?"

"Sore." Derek answers honestly. "Like I've been hit by a car. Hurts all over."

"Yeah, you looked like you were having a real nice time when I got here. Peter and Boyd had to restrain you, and they weren't very gentle about it. Well, I guess you weren't really pulling punches, either, but you were completely out of it, so it's not really your fault. You're still running hot, but it's getting better. You want something to drink?"

At Derek's nod, he unfolds his legs – which are cramped over and almost frozen in place by this time – and tries to get to his feet, but Derek suddenly grabs his wrist and refuses to let him budge.

"Don't go." He pleads, the beginnings of panic oozing into his voice. "Just... stay."

Stiles gives him a contemplating stare, before sitting back down next to his hips.

"All right. But I'll have to call someone to bring some water. Are you okay with Peter coming to see you? He was worried about you."

"Peter? Worried?" Derek tries to scoff, ends up coughing weakly halfway through.

"Yeah, believe it or not, but he stayed with you even after you tried to chew his arm off." He chuckles. "So, yes or no? I'm not sure where your other Betas are."

After a while, the Alpha gives a tiny nod, and Stiles squeezes his hand reassuringly.

"Peter, can you come up here?" He bellows, sure the werewolf will hear him, wherever he is.

It's mere seconds before he appears at the door.

"Stiles? You need anything?"

"He's awake." The teen answers with a smile.

A smile instantly breaks on the older man's face and he takes quick strides across the room to lean over Derek's slowly awakening form.

"Hey there, dear nephew. Can I come closer or do I have to expect my other arm to be ripped apart?" He asks playfully.

The Alpha tries to give him his patented withering glare, but his eyelids quickly start drooping.

"Don't push it, old man." He rasps, but his answer is too weak to hold any true menace, and they all know it. Somehow, it makes Stiles feel even more protective.

"Could you bring him some bottled water? Or gatorade, if you have it." He says, trying to keep the scorn from his voice.

"Sure. I'll be back."

He watches Peter depart, but Derek's renewed grip on his wrist brings his attention back around to the ill werewolf.

"How come you're here?" The Alpha asks, and there's something in his tone, something like gratefulness, that the teen does not dare interprete.

"Isaac called me. Apparently, you were shouting my name. Whatever hallucinations you were having, it ended after you got your paws on me."

"What? Stiles, did I hurt you?" And Derek suddenly sounds much more alert, his eyes wide open in alarm and roaming all over the teen's frame, stopping with obvious dread on the blood staining his clothes.

"No, you didn't." Stiles is quick to reassure. "Not my blood, dude. A bit of yours, a lot of Peter's, I think, but you didn't try to maul me. You just sort of wrapped yourself around me and it was enough to calm you down."

Derek still looks wary, but he sinks back into the pillows and sighs in relief, letting out an involuntary appreciative noise when the teen starts carding fingers through his dirty hair. Then Peter comes back and they both help him take small sips of blue gatorade, wiping his chin when it overflows and he's too weak to swallow it all, and soon he's alone with Stiles again, exhausted to his bones and wanting nothing more than let unconsciousness claim him again.

The teen obviously agrees with this plan, because he tucks the covers back around his shoulders and turns the light off.

"Go back to sleep." He whispers. "I'm just gonna go take a leak, but I'll be back, okay? I promise to be there when you wake up."

"You shouldn't have to stay." He mumbles, wishing he could voice just how much he appreciates Stiles's presence, but knowing the teen has other priorities, like his dad, and school, and homework, and Lydia Martin, and Scott, and all the others.

He's quickly proven wrong.

"You're sick, and vulnerable, and I don't trust any of your wolves to take proper care of you, especially not your crazy uncle. Besides, everyone except him has to go to school today, and of them all I'm the one who can afford to skip classes. Of course I'm going to stay, Derek. You're my Alpha too, remember?"

Were he any less weak in this moment, he would probably have resisted the urge to tug Stiles closer and bury his head in his lap. As it is, he feels weaker than he's ever been, and scared, too, he has to admit that much, and he doesn't want to feel alone anymore. So he wraps an arm around Stiles's waist and raises his head just enough to lay it on the teen's thigh, tears welling up in his closed eyes at how natural it feels when the human spontaneously drops a hand to his shoulder and brings up the other to sift slowly through his hair.

"Thank you."

"Go to sleep, Derek, I've got you."

******

Hours and hours later, he wakes up to the feel of a warm body pressed close to his, spooning him from behind, and knows instinctively it's Stiles. From his breathing pattern, the teen is wide awake, waiting for him to emerge at his own pace, and he wants to dwell in the feeling for however long it lasts.

Unfortunately, with the return of consciousness comes a certain awareness of his own smell, and he can't help but grimace at the stench.

"Jesus, I reek." He grumbles, and feels more than hears Stiles's answering laugh against his back.

"Well, yeah, a little. Guess I got used to it after the first few hours, but I gotta admit, a shower would do you some good. How are you feeling?"

"Better. Not all the way there, but... not so sore."

"Awesome. Wanna try getting up?"

Derek grunts in agreement and wriggles his legs out of the covers, letting his feet drop to the ground before pushing himself into a sitting position. He sways, vision going blurry around the edges, and instantly Stiles's hands are on his shoulders, bracing him.

"Whoa, not so fast, Sourwolf. I really don't feel like scraping your brains out of the floorboards when you decide that being upright is out of fashion this week."

He snorts, gives himself a few seconds to fight off the dizzy spell. When he's starting to feel stable enough, Stiles pulls him to his feet, grinning, catches him around the waist when Derek's knees buckle. Stiles protests a little under their combined weights, but they remain standing.

"Good. That's... good. Now we're going to walk you to the bathroom, real slow, all right? If you don't feel so hot, you tell me, man. Okay?"

"Okay." He's about to say that he's no princess needing help to find her own bathroom, but they have already established that the mere effort of getting to his feet is almost enough to make him pass out, so he endures it.

Soon, Stiles is leaning him against the sink while he fumbles with the taps to get the water running, plugs the stopper in the drain, and then he's facing him, and eyeing him critically. Derek raises a questionning eyebrow, sees the teen take a deep breath.

"This is going to get awkward." He announces. "We gotta get you naked. Can you do it on your own, or are you going to trip over your own feet and brain yourself on the toilet cubicle?"

The Alpha makes an offended face and pops open the button of his ruined jeans, tugging the fly down and pushing both jeans and boxers down his hips. It's as far as they go, though, skintight and stiff with dried blood, and he really doesn't feel like bending over at the waist to get them all the way down. He fights against the blush rising on his cheeks.

"Um..."

"Yeah, okay."

The teen crouches before him and peels everything down, tapping first his left and then his right ankle to let him step out of his clothes without losing balance. The move has obviously been practiced, and Derek wonders briefly who it is that Stiles helped undress before, if it's Scott, or his father, maybe even his mother, when she was ill and uncapacitated.

Finally, Derek is naked, while Stiles is fully clothed, and the Alpha realizes he doesn't mind, doesn't feel threatened.

Realizes that he trusts Stiles. That he has probably trusted him for a while now.

It's not an epiphany as much as a slowly dawning truth.

"Come on, Sourwolf, let's get you in the tub."

With Stiles's help, he slowly sinks into the water, moaning as the clean warmth licks his skin and soothes his aching muscles. Then the teen is pouring shampoo into his hair and rubbing firm circles into his scalp, and it's bliss, complete and utter bliss.

"Christ, Stiles, your hands." The words escape without his notice and it's only Stiles's chuckle that lets him know he spoke out loud.

"Enjoy it while it lasts, because I'm not playing nursemaid for you for the rest of my life."

The teen's heart skips a beat. He's lying. Derek doesn't know what to do with that piece of information. So he sinks deeper into the water and allows the most vulnerable member of his pack to take care of him, to work the grit and matted blood out of his hair and rub soap all over his skin. He's enjoying it while he can, especially now he knows that Stiles does, too.

After a while, he notices the throb in his bladder, the need he has ignored until then because he was focused on other sensations. It's becoming quite urgent, and he realizes he will have to inform Stiles, at some point, because there's no denying nature when it calls. It's a little humiliating, but he is pretty sure the teen is expecting it – he stayed unconscious for the most part of eighteen hours, and drank two whole bottles of gatorade, the issue must have crossed his mind at least once – and after all, he trusts Stiles. It feels good to finally think it.

"I have to piss." He mumbles against the teen's clothed thigh where he is resting his head, when the teen is done cleaning him up and is now rinsing him with the shower head and running idle fingers along his hairline while the water drains, having obviously caught on how much Derek likes it.

"Oh. Do you want me to leave so you can let go?"

Derek's confusion must show, because Stiles rolls his eyes.

"Don't tell me you've never done this before. You could just go in the tub, it would be washed away anyway. Here, hold this, I'll just get out for a minute."

"Don't go!"

His wet fingers are scrambling for purchase on the teen's forearms and he doesn't know why the idea of Stiles leaving him like this is suddenly terrifying, but it is, and he's looking up into Stiles's bewildered face and his eyes are pleading him to stay. He blames it on the poison still running through his veins, clouding his judgment and making him weak and needy as a pup that hasn't yet been weaned.

"Don't go." He repeats feebly. "It's okay. I can hold it. I'll wait until later if you don't want to stay for this."

Stiles sits back down on the edge of the tub, worry etching lines on his usually smooth brow.

"Hey, stop that. I'm not going far, just outside the door to give you some privacy."

"No, please. I'll just hold it."

He sounds like a child. It's enough to bring tears to his eyes. Damn wolfsbane fucking with his brain. Stiles squeezes his shoulder, draws him back against him.

"Don't be ridiculous, you can't hold on forever." He chastises, but his voice is gentle. "Just go, Derek, I thought you'd want me out for this but I don't care, okay. Let go, it's your body's way of getting rid of the poison, so it's better out than in."

Derek buries his face in the teen's hip, eyes clenched shut against the tears and the terror that are slowly receding. He breathes in deep, then out, trying to will his body to relax once more, and is surprised when he feels the pain in his midsection fade away, too. The shower is still running so it's masking the noise of his bladder giving way, but there is the unmistakable scent of ammonia rising in the air, and it's making him blush, making him cringe inside.

"Shhh, Derek, it's okay. You had to go at some point. Let it feel good, all right?"

He's shivering when he's finally done, with cold, exhaustion or leftover fear, he doesn't know, but he's glad when Stiles takes charge again, shuts the shower and hauls him to his feet and wraps him in a giant fluffy towel, drying his hair with a smaller one in short, efficient moves, and then helps him back into clean boxers and into the bed. Derek curls under the blankets, trying to masquerade his anguish as irritation, but the teen sees right through him, nudges him further away to lie down beside him. He wants, desperately, to turn around and drape himself over Stiles, bury his face in his neck and just breathe in, but he's ashamed, and he can't, he's supposed to be an Alpha, able to take care of himself, and Stiles has taken care of so much already.

"Hey. What's wrong? Come on, look at me."

The human's hand is creeping under his jaw and forcing him to meet his stare, but he averts his eyes, clenches his teeth to prevent the words from tumbling out.

"Derek. If this is you freaking out about letting me in, I've seen you in far worse states before. Do I have to remind you that you asked me to cut off your arm when we barely knew each other? Somehow, it comes to me as far more disturbing than seeing you take a piss and helping you shower when you were on the brink of death not twenty hours ago. I care about you, man, we all do. I had to fight off your Betas this morning when then came in to see you. They wanted to stay here today and help you, but the teachers would have noticed four students going missing, and, like I've already explained, the others really can't afford to miss school. And, well, I wouldn't have gone anyway. I'm pretty sure my dad even called them preemptively to say I was staying home sick."

Throughout Stiles's speech, Derek has felt his heart get lighter and lighter. The last sentence, though, brings a frown to his face.

"Are you sick?"

"No. Today's the fourth anniversary of my mom's death. With everything that's happened, I had almost forgotten."

Something cold and nasty settles in the pit of his stomach, the familiar taste of guilt. Stiles should have had the time to mourn his mother today. Instead, he felt obligated to stay and help Derek until he recovered.

"I'm sorry." He mumbles, close to tears again. "I'm so sorry you had to stay here, Stiles. You should have been with your father, or... I don't know. Not here, not because of me."

"Hey, none of that." He says, slapping his back gently. "My father is spending the whole week in a cabin near the ocean, drinking cocktails and fishing and lazing in the sun. It's what she used to do around this time of year. I usually spend the week alone, or at Scott's, because we don't deal very well if we stay together. So, no, sorry, but you don't get to guilt-trip yourself over this when actually you've been keeping my mind busy and that's a very good thing. I'll go to the cemetary later, when everyone is back and I can leave you in their care, but right now, you're going to sleep some more, and I'm going to go downstairs and cook you some chicken soup, and you're going to humor me later and eat it all. And then we're going to cuddle some more so I can know that we're fine and that you're okay and maybe feel a little less like everything is gonna crash down eventually, because I've lost my mother, and it may be one single person, but it hurts, fuck, it hurts so much, and my father loves me and I love him but sometimes I wonder if we're ever gonna be okay, and I need you to make it better. Okay?"

Derek's heart is pounding hard against his ribs, and this time, he knows he can't put it down to adrenalin or poison or whatever else. He rolls around until he can face Stiles, and this time doesn't hesitate before wrapping his arms around the teen's torso and hauling him close, tangling their legs together and guiding his face to his shoulder, squeezing him as tight as his weakened muscles will allow when he smells and feels the first tears rolling on his naked skin, when he hears the first sobs breaking out. He knows no words can alleviate the pain of loss, so he remains silent, shedding a few tears of his own in sympathy and hiding them in Stiles's hair, sniffling and laughing sadly at the picture they make. Two broken men, boys really, clinging to each other for comfort, huddling under the blankets for warmth as much as the feeling of safety.

Stiles cries himself to sleep. Derek lets him.


	8. Chapter 8

Derek is the one who drives him back from the hospital. Stiles is pretty sure Scott and even Jackson both volunteered, but one look from their Alpha and the words died on their lips.

It's not even that serious, honestly. Barely a scratch. The doctors insisted on giving him a few stitches, antibiotics and some painkillers, but Stiles doesn't even feel the sting of the wound anymore.

Maybe it's the adrenalin still coursing through his system.

But Derek is acting like Stiles is on the brink of death. He's pale and sweaty and as blank-faced as ever, driving slower than a grandma with a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, and in the few minutes it took to leave the ER and get to his car he has already checked Stiles over three times, asked if he was in pain four times, and helped him into the car like he was a fucking cripple.

Which he's not. The bullet barely grazed his left forearm. Sure, it bled a little, and burned, and made him feel like he was floating, because – _Holy shit, he dodged a bullet, he's awesome like that._

He realizes he said it out loud, giggles a little hysterically. His dopey smile drops, however, when Derek abruptly swerves into a dead-end dirt road and jumps out of the car like the Hell Hounds are biting his ass.

And then the werewolf is leaning against a tree and throwing his guts up.

Shit.

Stiles scrambles out of the car after him, walks the few steps separating him from his heaving and panting Alpha, and drops his valid hand on Derek's shoulder.

"Don't." Derek snaps.

The teen stays bewildered for a moment before slowly withdrawing his hand.

"What's wrong? You're not poisonned, are you?" He worries immediately, wondering if somehow they all managed to miss a fatal injury while he was being bandaged up.

"I said don't. Don't talk. Don't... Just shut up."

"But..."

"Shut the fuck up, Stiles!" He roars.

The teen instinctively takes a few steps back, before scowling and doing just the opposite.

"What the fuck's your problem?" He spits. "I'm fine, everyone is fine, and _you're_ fine, thanks to me, I should add, because that bullet was meant for you and if I hadn't pushed you out of the way you'd have been shot in the fucking _head_ and that's really not something any of us needs. So, no, Derek, I'm not going to just shut up, because you should be thanking me, and not shouting at me for whatever it is that crawled up your ass and died!"

Derek slams him against a tree, and he hits his head so hard that he almost passes out. The Alpha has barely enough control left to aim for the trunk instead of Stiles's face, and they're both caught in a shower of dust and splinters as his fist drills a hole in the wood above him. The punch was inches away from splitting the tree in half, and his growl is the most ferocious the teen has ever heard.

He shuts up instantly.

They remain still and silent for a long time, panting against each other's faces, bodies hardly an inch apart, the air between them smelling like sweat and salt and gore. Stiles notices the drying flecks of his own blood on Derek's left cheek, probably from when he pushed him out of the way and caught the bullet in his arm. He wants to wipe it out, doesn't dare make a move.

The tension trickles slowly away from Derek, breath after controlled breath, and when his eyes finally reopen, an inordinate amount of time later, the raw fear and desperation shining in them is enough to make Stiles's stomach churn.

"You could have died." Derek chokes, voice shot to hell.

"It's just a sratch." The teen tries to reassure.

"It could have been much worse. Fuck, you... you jumped in front of a bullet. For me. When you know I can heal, and you can't. You can't heal."

"I can, just not as fast as –"

"Damnit, Stiles, shut up!"

The human does his best to keep still and silent, letting the werewolf regain his calm incrementally. It's difficult to fight his instinct to fidget and talk his way out of the awkward proximity, but he's not sure how much control over himself Derek possesses at the moment, and even though he's pretty sure the Alpha would never hurt him, he doesn't want to make the situation escalate any further.

It's a long time before the other man speaks again.

"You can't do this, Stiles. You can't." He sounds almost ready to cry. "I know you want to protect us, I know that, but I can't take another death, I've lost too much and I'll... If any of you dies, I'll never get back up. But – but if _you_ die, Stiles, I'm not sure I can survive at all."

The teen is stunned speechless. During the years they've known each other, Derek never put words on his pain, never talked about the grief and guilt and loneliness eating him up from inside. Stiles is smart enough, and attuned enough to the Alpha's other ways of communication to understand nonetheless how deep the hurt runs, and shares enough of that grief to fathom how incapacitating it can be.

But it's the first time Derek willingly opens up and shares his feelings, and Stiles is overwhelmed with a surge of empathy and affection and love, so powerful that he can't help his next gesture, and wouldn't stop it if he could.

He wraps his arms around Derek's shoulders and holds on, squeezing tight, one hand cupping the back of his neck, the other flat between his shoulderblades. He hopes it's not too bold, that Derek's not going to spook, but after a while, the Alpha seems to melt against him, sagging into his arms and burying his face in his neck, breathing wetly against his skin and muffling sobs.

"I'm okay." He mumbles. "I'm okay, Derek, we all are, and we're never gonna leave you. And it's not your fault there are bad things prawling around these woods, it's not your fault when we get hurt, because you're doing everything you can and we want to protect you, too. We love you, Derek, okay? Whether you like it or not, we're staying with you. I'm staying with you."

The werewolf is shaking with barely controlled sobs, tears rolling freely down his face and soaking the shoulder of Stiles's hoodie, and burrows closer into the teen's chest, like he's seeking shelter. Stiles just hugs him impossibly tighter and lays his cheek against his Alpha's hair.

"Let go, Derek. Let it all go."

It's long, long minutes before Derek finally quietens. Even then, they remain silent and unmoving, tangled in each other, sharing their air and their warmth and taking comfort from each other's mere presence. Stiles is unconsciously petting Derek's hair, once again, and the Alpha doesn't know why this simple gesture is what unveils how much he _needs_ Stiles, but it does, and life hasn't been kind to him, and he's tired of never taking chances.

So he raises his head, catches Stiles's gaze, and slowly leans in, never breaking eye contact, until their lips are pressed together in a chaste kiss, which Stiles promptly returns.

There are no fireworks, no catcalls or applause, no frenzied shucking of clothes. Just an immense relief and a warmth, deep in his chest, where he thought cold had permanently settled. Dropping his forehead to Stiles's, he just breathes, in and out, taking in their mixed scents and the mild arousal wafting from them both, not pressing enough to act on it, just the confirmation that there is something happening there, in the space between them, something that is worth cherishing and relishing, something that tastes a little like happiness, even though it's a concept that's sadly unfamiliar to both of them.

******

When they finally make it back to Stiles's home, the Sheriff's cruiser isn't parked in the driveway, so Derek turns the ignition off and accompanies Stiles inside, holding his hand, kissing the back of his head while the kid fumbles with the keys to the front door.

Derek is probably too distracted by this new feeling in his chest to notice the sound of another heartbeat, but when the door finally opens, the Sheriff is waiting for them, his face severe, arms crossed before his torso.

"Stiles. Derek." He greets drily.

"Dad!" Stiles gasps. "What are you... what are you doing here? Where's your car?"

"At the garage. A colleague gave me a lift."

They're caught so unaware that they don't even think about unlinking their hands. This sight alone is enough to appease Stiles's father, even if just a little. Until he notices the stitches in his son's forearm.

"What happened? Where have you been? It's long past midnight. You didn't call. I was worried." He demands, flailing a little, then curses himself for having taken the habit from his son.

Stiles opens and closes his mouth several times, before swallowing uncomfortably.

"Um. It's just a bunch of stitches, really, no need to make a fuss. I... fell and hurt my arm?"

"Why does that sound like a question?" The Sheriff deadpans.

"That's got to be because... I'm a little high right now." The teen finally decides on.

"Oh really?"

"Yeah. Look. Painkillers!" He intones, brandishing the bag they got when they filled Stiles's prescription before leaving the hospital.

Stiles's father casts a quick look inside before rolling his eyes.

"It's Tylenol, Stiles. You're not winning any points by lying to me."

The silence that follows is deafening. Derek swallows, then decides to bite the proverbial bullet.

"Sir. We may have a lot of things to explain. But, maybe, tomorrow? I think we're all exhausted and I'm pretty sure Stiles is about to crash hard. I promise we'll tell you everything in the morning, though."

"I guess you're staying the night, huh?" The Sheriff says knowingly, with barely a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

Derek blushes. Stiles almost does a double take, because _Woah, Derek's blushing!_ Then remembers that they just got caught by his father, and that the situation is serious.

"Um... We're not going to... do... anything illegal, if that's what you're worried about." He says, tentatively.

"I would certainly hope so." The Sheriff answers with a meaningful look. "In the meantime, from the face you're making right now, I'm well aware it would be useless to try to prevent Derek from sleeping in your bed tonight, so I'm going to be an understanding father and leave you two alone."

They both sigh a little in relief.

"At the condition that you leave the door open and that we have a talk tomorrow night when I come back from my shift. And I want to know _everything_. For now, just tell me if you're all right, son. And no lies."

Stiles turns to face Derek, and a small smile, so tender it hurts, graces his lips.

"I'm fine, Dad."

His eyes meet the Alpha's, and the openness in them makes his heart beat a little stronger, loosening something he hadn't known had been coiled tight, deep in his belly.

"Yeah. More than fine."

Derek smiles back.


	9. Chapter 9

Somehow, they make it work.

Even before it became an official thing, Derek had persuaded himself it was bound to fail. Stiles is a teenager, preoccupied with highschool and college and his dad's health, and Derek is an Alpha with obligations toward his pack and the whole werewolf community, burdened with the grief and guilt of eleven deaths, probably damaged beyond repair. The Sheriff's blessing, unexpected as it was, came with strict rules, most of them regarding his son's safety, but some of them, surprisingly, concerning Derek more directly.

For instance, if any of the wolves smelled trouble, they were to report immediately to the Sheriff himself. The Alpha had been reticent to agree to that specific rule, but he had to admit that the police's help could sometimes come in handy, and Stiles's father was remarkably discreet when it came to werewolf business.

The other rule that had Derek cringing was the forced alliance with the Argents. True, Chris was nowhere near as blood-thirsty and narrow-minded as the rest of his family had been, and Allison had practically been part of the pack for a while now, but signing his name next to Argent's on the peace treaty had still made bile burn at the back of his throat.

But in the end, it was all worth it, probably. Because following these rules allowed Stiles to take part in pack's business, despite the obvious danger of running with wolves. And, more importantly, they allowed Stiles and Derek to see each other, as often as their schedules allowed.

Which wasn't much, but it was still far more than either of them had expected. But after a long night of explanations on the train wreck of events that had marred the last two years of their lives, the Sheriff had kept silent about the many reasons why his kid should probably not date someone like Derek. He had simply expressed his relief that his son was safe and sound, and had found someone who would be able to protect him and care for him in all the ways he, himself, couldn't.

Derek had sealed the deal by promising he would die before he let anything happen to Stiles, wouldn't hesitate to kill himself or whoever threatened to hurt him.

He meant every word.

******

Which is pretty much why he finds himself alone chasing after a rogue Omega who dared threaten to take Stiles for his own, a move that was probably solely destined to piss Derek off, but Derek can't care, because he made a promise, to himself and to Stiles's father, and he won't let anything happen to the teen, has to act before the threat becomes more than just that.

The Omega has led them both to the old steel manufacture at the south end of town, and Derek is starting to realize how much of a trap it has to be. There is no living soul around for miles and miles, only deserted warehouses and closed production units half rendered to ruins by the passing of years, and he hasn't called for back up yet, because the Omega is in fact an Alpha whose pack was decimated by hunters, and his enhanced senses would pick up on the slightest noise. If Derek can hear him treck through the various debris littering the floor, the rogue wolf would definitely not miss him using his phone, probably even the tapping of fingers on his tactile screen.

He should certainly retreat to the woods and make the call, but Derek has been tracking him for hours now, and for all he knows he remains undetected, so he's not about to lose the jackass who dared threaten Stiles just because of a stupid phonecall.

Stiles is going to hate him for it, but he made a promise, and it's one he's going to keep.

With all the stealth he's capable of, he follows the steps of the Omega into the warehouse, then up the metal stairway that leads to the footbridge surrounding and looking over the manufacture installations.

He barely has time to realize that he's now hearing a second heartbeat before something heavy crashes hard and at full speed into his back, kicking the air from his lungs and sending him tumbling over the railing.

His head hits a metallic beam on his way down, and then everything goes black.

******

When he finally comes to, the very first thing he's aware of is pain.

White-hot, agonizing, all-consuming pain, flaring up from somewhere deep within his right flank and radiating in every single cell of his body, his nerves alight with it, his muscles spasming because it's too much, too much. He retches, metallic tang of blood heavy in his mouth, tries to breathe against the hurt.

He passes out.

******

The next time he regains consciousness, the pain is still there, along with the familiar tingling signalling his body is trying, and obviously failing, to heal itself. The smell of blood is thick in the air and he knows it's his own, flowing sluggishly from the wound, his life slowly draining away from him in crimson rivulets. He can't smell anything else, has to assume he's alone, but he can't remember anything, can't think past the debilitating pain and the absolute certainty that somehow, he has to get help, and quick.

He slits his eyes open, waits a moment for his sight to focus. What he sees nearly makes him faint again, because there is a pole, a metallic ten-foot-high pole sticking out from his belly, blood smeared on its whole length and pooled on the floor around him, a mess of torn clothes and flesh and guts where there should be smooth skin, and he realizes that he's been impaled, probably fell from some height, can't remember how or why.

He's familiar with pain, almost used to it by now. But he's also used to his body getting rid of it in a matter of minutes, sometimes even seconds, and this is nothing like it, because there is no way he can heal around a two-inch-thick rod of metal, and he's losing blood, fast.

He cellphone vibrating in his back pocket startles him violently enough that his muscles shift around the pole. The pain flares up and he screams himself raw, feels tears cascading down his cheeks, and wishes for the darkness to swallow him up once more.

After a while, it does.

******

He's been awake for what seems like hours now, but is probably mere minutes, and he's careful not to move too much, not to breathe too deep, the slightest movement morphing into agony.

His hand is slowly creeping towards his phone, because it's his only hope of getting out of here alive. Even if someone notices his absence, eventually, they probably won't be able to find him before it's too late, and even an alpha werewolf cannot hold out against such an important blood loss for too long.

He has to shift his hips a little in order to access his pocket, to raise them from the ground, and he grinds his teeth in preparation for the pain, because he has no choice, has to get to his phone, and the anticipation alone is enough to bring him close to sobs.

He passes out just as his fingers close around the device.

******

His phone vibrating in his hand rouses him, and after a brief moment of confusion he frantically tries to pick up, bloody fingers clumsy on the tactile screen, eyes unfocused and unable to read the caller's ID, and he really hopes it's someone friendly, someone who will be able, and willing, to help.

"Oh God, finally!" He hears in Stiles's familiar voice, and he's so relieved he could weep. "Where have you been? We've been calling you for hours. Are you okay?"

"I... I need help..." He croaks.

There is a pause on the other end, and suddenly the sounds of someone running, bumping into furniture and walls, frantic panting coming out as static.

"Jesus, Derek, you sound like you're dying. Where are you?"

"Dunno..." He moans. "Stiles..."

"Right. Okay. Your phone is on, which means we can locate you via GPS. I'm on my way, Derek, hang on, all right? I'm gonna have to hang up on you to call for back up, but I'll call you right back, yeah? You better pick up, man, don't pass out. You're gonna be okay, Derek, just hold on, we'll be there soon."

"Okay." 

The line goes dead and he lets his hand drop to the ground, fingers clenching weakly around the phone to keep it close. He fights against the dizziness threatening to overwhelm him and lets the tears flow, exhausted and afraid and relieved and in so much pain that he can't deal with anything, can just wish for Stiles to call back already because the sound of his voice was an anchor he could hold onto, even if it was just for a moment.

After a minute, though, he loses the fight and lets unconsciousness claim him.

******

There are hands all over him, familiar scents tickling his nostrils, and the soft, soothing rumble of nonsensical words close to his ear, and he forces himself to open his eyes, meets concerned and horrified brown eyes that soften just a little at seeing him conscious.

"Fuck, Derek. God. Stay with me, man, okay? Scott has gone to fetch a metal saw, we're gonna get you outta here in no time. Deaton is on his way, too. You're gonna be fine. You hear me?"

Derek answers by pressing his cheek against Stiles's open palm and breathing in the teen's reassuring scent, and nodding almost imperceptibly. Stiles smiles tentatively and gets even closer, somehow sensing that he needs the contact, needs the assurance that help has arrived and it will be over soon.

"I'm here, man, not going anywhere. Just breathe, don't move an inch, and you'll be fine."

He nods again, and lets himself drift to the sound of Stiles's rambling, to the warmth of his skin against his face. The pain has dulled to a distant throb, and he's pretty sure it's not a good sign, but he's too weak to care, too blood-deprived to think of anything but the fact that he's not alone anymore.

Scott barges in five minutes later with Isaac, Erica and Boyd in tow, metal saw clenched hard in his hands. Their faces pale as soon as they take in the scene, and Erica's face scrunches up like she's about to break into tears, but she manages to get herself under control pretty quickly, and they all drop to their knees next to him, squeezing their alpha's hands and taking his pain as best as they can while Scott starts to work on the pole, saw barely an inch above his belly.

The vibration that runs along the metal with each pass of the saw makes Derek whine and gasp in renewed agony, but with his betas' help and Stiles's comforting words, it's manageable, although it probably won't be for long.

Soon, the metal gives way under Scott's brutal treatment. They all take position around him and he takes a breath, clenching his eyes and his teeth shut and grasping both of Stiles's forearms with all his remaining strength. Then suddenly they are heaving him upwards and wrenching his body away from the pole and he howls, eyes rolling backwards as his brain shuts down once more.

The last thing he remembers is Stiles's warmth under his cheek.

******

It's barely daylight when he next opens his eyes. The first rays of morning sun are filtering through the gaps in the blinds, bathing the room in a warm glow. The pain has mostly gone, reduced to the dull ache of an old wound, and he's tucked in soft sheets, lying on a comfortable mattress that is definitely not his. There is an IV drip attached to his left forearm and he can feel some sort of plastic tubing running along his thigh, which he quickly concludes is a urinary catheter. He doesn't have to turn his head to know that Stiles is right next to him, probably asleep from the pattern of his breathing, but almost certainly ready to jump at the smallest sound. Derek smiles softly at the teen's dishevelled hair and the drool pooling on his forearm where he is resting his head, and carefully lifts a hand to drop on his shoulder.

As predicted, Stiles immediatly startles awake and fixes him with a wide-eyed stare, the residual panic in his eyes fading to almost nothing when he notices that the alpha is finally conscious. His face is ashen gray, purple circles under his lower lids, hair unkempt, and the kid looks like he hasn't really slept in days.

"Derek, hey." He greets, before wiping his chin with the back of his hand. "You're awake. How are you feeling?"

"Much better." He answers, voice hoarse from screaming so much and hours, maybe days, of unuse. "Thanks for saving me."

"Anytime." Stiles says fervently, and there is so much honesty in his eyes that Derek feels his stomach sommersault. "Fuck, I was so scared, man. We were all supposed to meet to talk about the Omega and you never showed up, so we started calling you, but you wouldn't answer. And then you sounded so bad, and you didn't pick up your phone when I called back, and I thought I would never get there on time. And then I saw you with that fucking thing sticking out of you and..."

Stiles stops, swallows thickly, wipes his eyes distractedly.

"Sorry. I'm just glad you're okay. You've been out for three days, and I just..."

Derek finds Stiles's hand and laces their fingers together, squeezing as best as he can at this awkward angle. He's certainly not expecting the sudden armful of shaking teenager and he remains still, confused as to what he's supposed to do, before hesitantly wrapping his free arm around Stiles's shoulders and patting him clumsily on the back, wincing a little when it pulls on his still healing side but ignoring the pain in favor of comforting the man for whom he would gladly give his life. He remembers how Stiles's touch helped, how his voice and warmth and scent were the only things keeping him afloat, and he lets himself relax in the embrace, lets himself give back the affection that Stiles has provided so freely in the past.

"I'm okay now." He whispers in his ear. "Thanks to you, thanks to all of you. You did really good. You found me, Stiles, and I'm so glad you did. I'm lucky to have you. We're gonna be fine."

Stiles keeps crying softly against his neck for a little while, giving in to the stress and fear of the last few days now that there is nothing more expected of him, now that he can finally let go, reassured that his alpha is going to live to see another day. Derek lets him, petting his hair and tenderly pressing his cheek against Stiles's temple, breathing noisily in and out in a slow rythm and hoping it will eventually encourage the teen to regulate his own.

Neither of them withdraws from the embrace, even long after Stiles has finally fell silent. Derek is starting to doze again, still exhausted from the blood loss and the amount of healing his body went through, and Stiles is just too tired to move now that his adrenaline levels have so brutally collapsed, so they snuggle on the narrow bed, taking comfort from each other's presence, the teen burrowed into his alpha's left side with an ear resting right over his heart, arms and legs entangled and not giving a damn about anyone finding them like this.


End file.
